


never really feel a thing

by brophigenia



Series: dreamboy (the prokopenko AU) [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angry Sex, Assumed name, Blowjobs, Bodyguard!Proko (Sort Of), But that's not really mentioned, Car Sex, Dreamer Prokopenko, Hate Sex, Identity Porn, Interlude, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Yet Still Loving Sex, limo sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: K’s eyes are glowing. His eyes are glowing and Proko is hovering at the edges of the dancefloor, watching, gun in his holster and eyes sharp. He keeps his hands folded before himself, making no mistake about who he’s supposed to be in a sharply-cut black suit. A made man, here to play babysitter bodyguard to Boris Kavinsky’s wild only child as he gets as fucked up as possible.It’s the roles they have to play, and yet Proko’s teeth ache as he grinds them together, trying to resist the urge to tear K away from the overly-tanned, overly-put-together young things pressing up on all sides.(Between Codas 1-3 and the upcoming sequel to Dreamboy, we have some limousine blowjobs and feelings.)





	never really feel a thing

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know, guys. I was in a PK mood last night. (When am I not, though?) 
> 
> May not make sense at all since you haven't read the sequel yet, but ya know. Suspend your disbelief and read for titillation.

K’s eyes are glowing. His eyes are glowing and Proko is hovering at the edges of the dancefloor, watching, gun in his holster and eyes sharp. He keeps his hands folded before himself, making no mistake about who he’s supposed to be in a sharply-cut black suit. A made man, here to play babysitter bodyguard to Boris Kavinsky’s wild only child as he gets as fucked up as possible. 

It’s the roles they have to play, and yet Proko’s teeth ache as he grinds them together, trying to resist the urge to tear K away from the overly-tanned, overly-put-together young things pressing up on all sides. 

Yasha offers him a shot; he declines with a sharp shake of his head, keeping with the image of  _ serious newcomer  _ that got him this position in the first place. He won’t be able to go through with their plan if he’s demoted. As much as he’d like to get entirely fucked up, he  _ can’t.  _ He has to stay alert for their cover. He has to stay alert for  _ K.  _

K, who is licking along the jugular of some Snookie-looking  _ bitch, _ his eyes bright like twin wildfires and he has to know what he’s doing. He  _ has  _ to know that Proko’s gut is twisted into knots with jealousy, that Proko is fucking  _ nauseous  _ with the need to  _ leave.  _ To leave and never fucking come back, drag K from this club and take him to Brazil or Argentina or fucking  _ Antarctica,  _ somewhere where Boris Kavinsky can’t find them and Proko’s own demons won’t know where to look. 

He can’t. He  _ can’t.  _

What good was it gonna do, to kill K’s dad, if all the  _ doing  _ did was tear them apart? But those were traitorous thoughts, and he shoved them away and let his mind float away from his body until he was startled back into it by Yasha coming again to his side. 

“Take his ass home, he’s embarrassing himself,” the man said, his English somehow even harsher than his Russian, which sounded like sawblades meeting. 

Proko nodded as curtly as he could, trying to hide his relief even as he strode forward to snatch K from the grasp of all the  _ whores  _ who would have him only for his money and his drugs and his  _ name,  _ which was all anyone in this fucking town cared about.  _ Kavinsky,  _ the boy prince returned a marauding prodigal with endless baggies of high-quality blow in his pockets. 

It made Proko fucking  _ sick.  _ He’d never been in this for the drugs, the infamy, the power. He’d been in it for  _ K,  _ and fuck all of these soulless fuckers who thought they could take him away. He’d had enough fucking  _ sharing  _ back at Aglionby, and no fucking mistake. Lynch was lucky he’d escaped unscathed, because even if they’d established a shaky sort of truce there was still a coiled part of Proko that would gladly carve him up like a jack o'lantern to get the point across. 

When it was all said and done he was going to  _ do something  _ about it; tattoo  _ property of ilya fucking prokopenko  _ over K’s goddamn ass in fucking  _ helvetica  _ to get the point across. He was done with that kid shit. He was in Jersey to slay the dragon and win the fucking princess, not lose him to the faceless masses. 

K stumbled along at his side all the way to the car, blinking slow and sniffling loudly with his knees shaky. In the car itself, though, he snapped out of his stupor to spare Proko a grin. Proko ignored him in favor of speaking to their driver, Mikhail, before securing the partition’s window shut. 

“God I forgot how Jersey can be,” K groaned, ecstatic, stretching, sloe-eyed and  _ sly.  _ Up to no fucking good, and Proko only hummed noncommittally, feeling like a fucking  _ girl.  _ K saw right through him, and his grin only grew. 

“You  _ mad,  _ baby?” He purred, sounding like fucking Satan himself. K high on coke and attention was a slinky beast, and true to that he slid neatly from the seat until he was down on his knees, shouldering his way between Proko’s. “You’re so  _ tense.”  _

“Not all of us are slutting it up on this job.” Proko reminded him lowly, furious and  _ wanting  _ and unable to stop himself from wrapping his hand around K’s throat, pushing the tip of his thumb into K’s wet, kiss-swollen mouth. 

“Lemme  _ help you,  _ then, comrade,” K all but giggled, pupils blown and irises paler than usual. “ _ Proko,”  _ he whispered, and then, “ _ Ilyusha.”  _ Like a schoolyard secret. 

Proko tightened his hand. “Not that.” He warned, and flicked his eyes around the inside of the car. He didn’t  _ think  _ it was bugged, but they couldn’t be sure. It would be better to be found fucking the boss’ kid than living under an assumed name and conspiring with the boss’ kid to  _ murder him.  _ Of  _ that _ , he was sure. 

“Dmitri,” K purred instead, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously. Proko rolled his eyes and knocked the SnapBack off his head with near-violent force, leaving him messy-haired and impossibly lovelier for it.  _ “Misha.”  _ It was an exaggerated kind of moan, and even though rationally Proko knew that K was moaning for  _ him,  _ he still felt his blood rising from hearing K moaning someone else’s name, reeking of sweat and  _ other people. _

Fuck, it had been so much easier to share back at Aglionby. He’d hated it, of course, but it had been  _ easier.  _ There’d mostly been the pack, and it wasn’t even really like  _ sharing  _ with them, more like they were extensions of him, they were all of them facets of one being and they all loved K with a kind of reckless intensity that bound them together. 

“Shut  _ up,”  _ he snarled, and K laughed, moaned  _ Mitya  _ theatrically even as he was undoing Proko’s belt and suit pants. 

“Gotta find a better use for my fucking filthy mouth,  _ Dima,” _ K murmured, and before Proko could reply he had answered his own challenge, going so far down on Proko’s cock that he choked on it. 

“I fucking hate you,” Proko swore, his eyes rolling back in his head and his hand going to clench tight in the long, greasy hair on top of K’s head. “I fucking  _ hate you,  _ you motherfucker.” 

K didn’t reply, and Proko was glad for it, glad to fuck up into his mouth and yank on his hair and scrape his nails over K’s jaw,  _ punishing.  _

(He was so  _ angry _ all the time; Dmitri Mikhailovich was a cover comprised of all the thinnest parts of him— all the parts  that, when added together, made him a walking fucking timebomb. He just wanted this to  _ end. _ He was tired of always being  _ this,  _ his father’s son.) 

When he came it was with a snarl, wordless and quiet. K stayed on him until Proko summoned the strength to shove him away, and even then he stayed close, panting through his nose on his knees, pressing his face into the clothed crux of Proko’s thighs. His shoulders shook. Proko couldn’t help but stroke the hair he’d just been yanking on. 

“I fucking hate this,” K whispered, nearly inaudible over the engine and the sounds of traffic outside. Proko’s throat went tight.  _ Then let’s fucking go,  _ he wanted to say.  _ Let’s leave and never fucking come back.  _

But that wasn’t how it worked. 

K had barely scrambled back up into the seat and put his hat back on before their driver had stopped the car. He stumbled out of it with the same feigned intoxication he’d gone in with, and Proko shared a  _ look  _ with the driver, rolling his eyes. 

He fucking hated this. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
